Respect For WWII Veterans – And Their Stories

By Linda Smith
(Muskoka Seniors Magazine, Fall 2025)

Do you have a family member who recites past events on perpetual re-wind, while you roll your eyes trying not to groan out loud? I do. After hearing the amazed reaction of PSW’s to my father’s repetitive stories, I decided to peel away the layers of over-exposure and take a second look. As we approach Remembrance Day, these two WWII accounts deserve acknowledgement.

I’m The Guy

My father’s friend Jan Lewandowski, ran a construction company after the war. Jan hired Dexter, a German-born carpenter to help him finish a house he was building. On the job site the men enjoyed each other’s company and struck up a rapport. They began to compare notes. My one-hundred-year-old dad couldn’t recall the date or the city involved, but the World War II event Jan told him about went something like this.

Jan: “Did you fight in combat during the war in Germany?”

Dexter: “I did.”

Jan: “What service were you in?”

Dexter: “Luftwaffe. I was flying a jet that was shot down over Germany.”

Jan: “Really! I was a pilot in the war too. I’ll bet you were shot down on a Tuesday morning at 9:30.

Dexter: “How can you know that?”

Jan: “Cos I’m the guy who shot you down.”

Comparing notes, the two men realized that this was the last time they had met – in the air. Both had lived to tell the story. Dexter must have had a good parachute! Jan explained that the last time he saw Dexter’s plane it had disappeared into a cloud on fire after his shot connected. Jan had no idea if the plane went down for sure or if the disabled aircraft was still able to fly away – until now. Against all odds, the men shook hands and eventually became friends. They were both pilots, ex-military and builders. They had a lot in common.

It is a hideous thing that men do to each other in the theatre of war, men who might have otherwise been friends, and who might have even built a house together.

Peggy In The Blitz

I recall another family that discounted their own mother’s over-recited accounts of living in London during the Blitz. I was fascinated when she shared her personal war-time experiences with me during visits. As she unfolded perilous accounts of what it was like to live in a city being bombed, I wondered why her children never shared these stories with me. It certainly was interesting, even riveting. She opened the vault of her memories to me.

“We knew the distinctive sounds of German planes compared to ours, so we could identify friend or foe. When we heard enemy aircraft drop the bombs that whistled, we braced for the blast as we huddled in our Anderson bomb shelters. They were government issued and pretty cramped, but one day we realized there was a greater problem. The mattresses we slept on during raids were soaked with water from underneath.

It was not unusual to crawl out of our shelters in the morning after an enemy raid, to see dead bodies in the streets. A friend was playing cards with her husband and a neighbour one minute. The next, she was walking naked down the street after her house received a direct hit by a bomb, the only survivor of the card game.”

I asked this interesting woman why her children never spoke of this to me? She told me their attitude was, “Ah, it’s just mom and her boring war stories.” Like me – they missed the gems. I thought this woman was a fascinating, walking, talking history book, someone to listen to carefully with wonder that she even survived one of the most horrendous experiences in history. My own father’s stories, wrapped around significant events proved the point. We need to listen more carefully and respectfully.

November 11^th – we remember.